Читать книгу Trial Courtship - Laura Abbot - Страница 10

CHAPTER FOUR

ANDREA HURRIED INTO the jury room, breathless from her dash across Public Square and down the street to the courthouse. The bailiff was already assembling the jurors. Shayla waved and shot her a big smile. Leaning against the conference table, Tony, his brow furrowed in concentration, studied a sheaf of papers in his hand. As she brushed past him on her way to the coatrack, he reached out and grabbed her by the elbow. “Hey, good morning. What’s your rush? He’ll wait for you.”

“Who?”

He nodded in the bailiffs direction. “Our tortoise look-alike.”

She suppressed a grin. “Only because he has to. He’s not happy with me.”

Tony helped her out of her coat, then watched her as she hung it up. “That’s his loss.”

His twinkling eyes and approving glance made her feel buoyant. She pointed to the papers in his hand. “Cramming?”

He closed the folder decisively and laid it on the table. “In a sense. I’m here because duty calls, but I still have to attend to business.” A grim expression settled over his features. “Not enough hours in the day.”

With a feeling she only belatedly recognized as disappointment, she said, “Perhaps, then, it was presumptuous of me to ask you to dinner this evening. If you’d prefer to postpone—”

“Postpone? To put it crassly, I have to eat. That being the case, I’d definitely prefer to eat a home-cooked meal in the company of a beautiful woman. I’ll be there.”

The compliment both warmed her and made her vaguely uncomfortable. She really didn’t know this man very well. “And in the company of a nine-year-old boy, don’t forget.”

“Oh, yeah.” From his tone of voice, she had the distinct sense that he had forgotten.

“Listen up, people.” The bailiff’s drill-sergeant voice cut off their conversation. “Her Honor is ready for you. Quiet, now.” He marched them into the jury box.

Judge Blumberg removed her half glasses and smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, be seated, please.”

Hoping there would be less technical forensic evidence today, Andrea picked up the pad and pencil in her chair and settled between Dottie Dettweiler and Roy Smith, the timid young man from the restaurant. The courtroom’s decor—burgundy carpet, oak paneling, gold-padded seats for spectators, indirect lighting—was distressingly anonymous, unrelieved even by a window. Maybe, Andrea reflected, it helped you focus on the people. Right now, the prosecutor was calling a Mrs. Ethel Innes to the stand.

Early testimony established that Mrs. Innes had been an eyewitness to the crime. Andrea leaned forward, listening intently to Mrs. Innes’s responses to the questions the prosecutor put to her. “Yes, I was in the store that night. My husband and me, we’d run out of cigarettes and when I got there I remembered we needed milk and... Oh, I’m sorry, sir. Yes, I was there.”

Andrea watched the woman twist her wedding ring nervously. Bedford backed away from the witness stand and said in a mild voice, “Now, Mrs. Innes, can you tell us to the best of your recollection what happened that evening?”

“Like I said, I needed milk, so I was in the back of the store near the dairy case, probably thirty feet or so from the register.”

“What happened next?”

“I’d just grabbed the milk when I heard voices. Somebody said, ‘Please!’ in a loud, pitiful voice. When I turned around, there was this man standing by the register with a ball cap pulled low over his face—” here she gestured as if pulling a hat over her eyes.

“Did this man have a gun?”

“He must have. He shot that poor clerk.” Her chin trembled with outrage.

“Let me rephrase that. Did you see a gun?”

“Well, he had his hand in his jacket pocket, you know, and it kinda looked like this.” The woman balled up her fist, extending her index finger.

“Did you hear the man say anything?”

“I sure did. He mumbled something and then, real menacing-like, he said, ‘...or I’ll kill you, old man.”’

“What happened next?”

Mrs. Innes rubbed her hands nervously. “The kid said, ‘Hand over the money.’ Just then a big display of soda cans that nearly reached the ceiling came tumbling down. Next thing, I heard a shot. My heart was beatin’ so fast I like to died right there.”

Bedford’s dry voice interrupted. “But what did you do?”

“I dropped the milk and fell to the floor.”

“And then?”

“The alarm went off, and I heard this voice yelling, ‘God damn it, what the—’” she glanced up at the judge “—I don’t think I’d better say that word, Your Honor.”

“I understand. Just substitute ‘expletive.’”

Mrs. Innes sighed, apparently in relief. “What the expletive .” She leaned against the back of her chair, obviously pleased to have remembered so accurately. “I laid real still until he ran outta the store.”

Bedford stood to one side, so the witness had a clear view of the courtroom. “Mrs. Innes, do you see the man you saw that night here today?”

Her mouth set with concentration, she straightened up and studied the teenager at the defense table. “That one looks about the same size, but—”

“Just answer the question.”

As if she’d failed a test, Mrs. Innes looked crestfallen. “No, I couldn’t be positive.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.” The prosecutor returned to his table.

Andrea tried to put herself into Mrs. Innes’s place. It must be difficult to recall accurately events that had happened so far in the past.

Slowly Ms. Lamb, the defense attorney, rose to her feet. “Good morning, Mrs. Innes. How are you today?”

The witness seemed uncomfortable, as if anticipating a trick. Andrea couldn’t help thinking that Mrs. Innes probably wanted the defendant to be found guilty. After all, she’d been scared out of her wits.

“Fine.” The woman’s chattiness was gone.

“What time of night was this?”

“About eleven-fifteen. My husband and me, we’d finished watching ER before he sent me to the corner to get him cigarettes.”

Andrea couldn’t resist a shudder at Mr. Innes’s apparent chauvinism.

“You say you could see what you presumed to be a gun in the pocket of the man at the counter. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You also testified you were at the back of the store, a distance of some thirty feet away.”

“Yes.”

“Could you be absolutely sure the man carried a gun in his pocket and not something else?”

The witness became flustered. “Well, when you put it that way...no.”

“In your previous testimony, you referred to the perpetrator as ‘kid.’”

“Yes.”

“How did you determine he was a youth?”

“He wore those big athletic shoes, the ones with all those colors and flashy things. And he wore, you know, one of those hippie-looking multicolored shirts.”

“Could a full-grown adult also wear such shoes?”

“I suppose.”

“And such a shirt?”

Mrs. Innes bit her lip. “I...yes.”

“So you had no proof that would justify your characterizing this person as ‘kid.’”

“I guess that’s right.”

“That’s all I have at this time for this witness, Your Honor.”

The judge thanked Mrs. Innes, then glanced at the prosecutor. “Counselor, call your next witness.”

Andrea’s eyes strayed to the defense table where the defendant was rubbing his hands up and down his thighs. When Ms. Lamb sat down, she touched him gently on the shoulder and his hands stilled.

The next witness, a muscular man of about forty dressed in corduroy trousers and a vividly striped rugby shirt, exuded confidence. From preliminary questions, Andrea learned Ken Mays was the manager of a gym and fitness center in the neighborhood of the store. He sat in the witness box with his feet planted firmly on the floor, knees apart, hands folded casually at his waist.

After the prosecutor asked him to give his version of events, the man responded succinctly. “I had jogged from my apartment to the convenience store, arriving at exactly eleven-thirteen. I know this because I timed my run. I was standing looking at magazines when, over the top of the rack, I saw this guy go up to the cashier. Something about the customer’s behavior made me suspicious. I didn’t move, not wanting to call attention to myself. I saw him pull a gun, and that’s when I moved to the end of the aisle and knocked over a tower of soda cans. I figured maybe I’d scare him away. About the same time, the cashier must’ve tripped the burglar alarm.”

“What happened next, Mr. Mays?”

“I hit the deck and heard the guy yell something like, ‘Gimme the money.’ Then I remember hearing the shot, and the guy ran like hell. Er, excuse me, Your Honor.”

The judge didn’t look up from the papers on her desk, but gave a brief nod.

“Did the perpetrator see you?” the prosecutor asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Can you describe the man with the gun?”

“He was about five-six or seven. Kinda hard to tell exactly. He wore dark jeans, athletic shoes, a tie-dyed T-shirt, a black goose-down vest and a navy blue ball cap.”

“I call your attention to People’s exhibit sixteen.” Bedford picked up a fuchsia, yellow and purple shirt. “Mr. Mays, is this the shirt the man in the store was wearing?”

“It looks like it to me.”

With a flourish of the garment, the prosecutor set it down and continued, “Did you happen to notice if he was wearing gloves?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Can you positively identify anyone in this courtroom as the man who was in the store that night?”

“No, I can’t.”

“What happened after the perpetrator fled?”

“I called 9-1-1 and tried to help the victim. But it was too late. He was already dead.”

“That’ll be all. Thank you.”

While the defense attorney sorted her notes, Andrea became aware of the scribblings on Dottie’s tablet. A grocery list! Unbelievable. Thanksgiving was still six days away. Surely the woman could pay more attention here. Yet, she had to admit that occasionally her own mind had strayed to what she would cook Tony this evening.

Ms. Lamb began her cross-examination. “You stated that the man at the counter was five-six or seven. However, except for a brief glimpse before you shoved over the cans, your only other view of him was from the floor looking up. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“From that latter viewpoint, might he have seemed taller?”

“Because of my work, I’m a pretty fair judge of body types.”

“But can you say with certainty, Mr. Mays, how tall the perpetrator was?”

“With certainty? No, ma’am.”

“About the shirt you saw. Wasn’t the perpetrator also wearing—” she stood at the defense table reviewing her notes “—a vest?”

“Yes.”

“Yet, you claim you can positively identify the shirt?”

“Yes. The vest wasn’t zipped.”

“Indulge me with a little test of your powers of observation.” She pulled two similar-looking shirts out of a paper bag and, blocking the witness’s view, arranged them along with the one from the exhibit table on the podium. “Mr. Mays, which of these is the shirt you identified for Mr. Bedford?” She stood aside.

He studied them. “The one on my left.”

The attorney glanced at the judge and said wearily, “Let the record show that this witness identified People’s exhibit sixteen.

“Thank you, Mr. Mays. I have no further questions at this time, Your Honor.”

The judge declared a recess during which the jurors milled around the jury room, several noticeably impatient. The trial was now in its third day, and the prosecution had yet to rest its case. “Hell, we’ll be here all next week,” Chet Swenson complained.

Dottie shook her head sadly. “I don’t know how I’m going to get ready for all my company.”

“Hey, it’s okay with me,” the young man who’d worn the Case-Western Reserve T-shirt on Wednesday said with a sly grin. “This beats going to class.”

Shayla and Andrea walked to the north window, overlooking the lake, glistening silver in the pale sunlight fingering through the light cloud cover. “So, how’s it going with Tony?”

Andrea rued the flush that crept up her neck. “Interesting.” She let the word lie between them, unsure whether she wanted to elaborate.

“Hey, girl, you can’t stop there. I gotta have something to think about besides crime.” She gave an out-with-it gesture. “What do you mean ‘interesting’?”

Grinning, Andrea relented. “Thanks to you and your clever manipulation, I had pizza with him last night.”

“That’s better than ‘interesting.’ That’s progress. So?” Shayla smiled in anticipation.

“He seems very nice. At least he made inroads with my nephew.”

“Whoa! Your nephew? Did he go on your date?”

Andrea backpedaled. “It wasn’t a date, exactly. Just a casual dinner.” She briefly explained about having custody of Nicky. “So, naturally he was along.”

“Kinda cramped your style, didn’t it?” Shayla waved her hands dismissively. “But, it’s a start. And from what I saw this morning, the man’s definitely got the hots for you. So what’s next?”

Andrea paused, aware that she didn’t know anything beyond tonight. Maybe she was kidding herself. Why would there be anything beyond that? Did she even want more? For heaven’s sake, she’d only just met Tony. “I’ve invited him for dinner this evening.”

Shayla gave her a high five. “Way to go! I’m proud of you.” Then her face fell. “There’s only one problem. That means I have to wait until Monday to hear all.”

“Maybe there won’t be much to tell.”

Shayla eyed her up and down, then cackled, “Oh, I imagine there’ll be plenty to tell.”

To Andrea’s relief, the bailiff motioned them to line up again. After court reconvened, Andrea was glad they’d had the break, because the next testimony was highly technical. First, a DNA expert whose tests proved the T-shirt Mays had identified had small bloodstains on it consistent with Mr. Bartelli’s blood, followed by an electronics professional, who discussed the surveillance video camera, its angle and range of view. Last, the judge permitted a replay of tape recorded that night. The picture was fuzzy, but was clear enough to show a male entering the store and threatening the owner. Then just as the man pulled a gun, the soda cans fell in such a way that the view of the register was momentarily obscured. Finally the camera picked up a figure running out the front door. It all happened so fast that Andrea had difficulty separating the actions.